End Of Cares
by Rat
Summary: A new hunt, a people eating house... Fun, right?
1. The E Mail

**Chapter 1: The E Mail**

**Author: **Maimat the Rat**  
Title:** End of Cares  
**Rating:** T  
**Warnings:** language  
**Spoilers:** First Season  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam. Gen

**Chapter one**

Dean felt drained. He couldn't tell Sam this, because Sam would get all worried and think it had to do with the heart attack and almost dying incident, which was so totally done and over. Or worse yet, Sam might think it had to do with any number of other things that it wasn't about, and start asking a bunch of idiotic questions that would undoubtedly piss Dean off.

Life with Dad was never this complicated. They were a team; Dad knew more about hunting, and Dean was happy to follow. Hunting with Dad was uncomplicated; they found a job, they did the job, they moved on. There was no buying of costumes, no endless hours of research. Dad never got on his back for using fake credit cards. Dad never made him eat at restaurants where you have to sit down and wait for someone to come serve you. Dad never made Dean talk about things he didn't want to talk about. Dean missed his Dad, and wow did he ever feel like a whiney little pussy right now.

Truthfully, most of the time Dean was ecstatic to be working with Sam again, though he'd never tell _him_ that. But, the waiting… _oh my god_, the waiting; the not doing anything, the boredom, it drove him nuts. There was never_, ever_ anything to do while his little brother did research on the net, on _Dean's laptop_. Dean knew the whole _you're in my space and using my stuff _thing was for teenagers but he couldn't shake it, and it made him feel like shit because Sam didn't have anything that wasn't Dean's because all of Sam's stuff got destroyed in the fire.

All this emo-woe-is-me-crap was stupid, and Dean didn't want to be thinking it, but while on that lovely train of thought, saying goodbye to Cassie was making his mood absolutely miserable. For the record, yes, he did notice that she said good-bye rather than see you later.

The waitress walked past their table again, and Miss Can't-remember-how-to-do-my-freaking-job kept forgetting to bring him his damn cup of coffee! She greeted other customers in her weird-ass-yuppy-too-happy-to-be-human way while Dean glared at her and he bit angrily into his sandwich, satisfied that at least she'd gotten that right.

Something wet and slimy oozed from the bread onto the bottom of his chin. Not thinking anything of it, Dean reached up to swipe it off, casually glancing at it. Just as he was about to flick it away, Dean did a double take and froze.

It didn't look like any vegetable he'd ever seen (not that Dean was all that familiar with vegetables as a food group). It was stringy, pale, somewhat bloated, and had a bulbous green head at one end. The unswallowed bit rolled around in his mouth; Dean's stomach suddenly lurched, his cheeks puffed, and grabbing a napkin he spat out the partially chewed food and grimaced.

Catastrophe averted, Dean drew back to glare at his sandwich. "What the…?" More of the wet, bloated, slimy wormlike weeds hung precariously over the sides of the bread.

Curiously, he lifted the top slice of bread and frowned; the inner workings of what should have been a BLT looked foreign and … ohmygowhatisthatthing? The lettuce and tomato were familiar, but the weedy, wormy stringy things… "Oh, you have _got_ to be kidding me…"

The prospect of what he'd nearly digested made his stomach roll again, and muttering a colourful epithet, he buried his face in his hands. Just when he didn't think this day could be worse. First, no coffee. And now, the food; it sucked out loud! The 'B' in a BLT was supposed to stand for bacon, how was Dean supposed to know here it meant bean sprouts?

Dean glowered at the offending _weeds_, and noticed that none of his justified theatrics elicited a single comment or retort from Sam. Dammit, this was Sam's choice of restaurant, and so it was only fair that he share Dean's pain.

Sam continued staring obliviously at the laptop and tapping on the keys, paying no attention whatsoever to his brother's plight. _Look at me Sam!_ Dean's internal mantra shouted, _I'm pissed and it's All. Your. Fault! _

When that didn't work, Dean shoved his plate aside, reached across the table and grabbed the laptop. "Give me that damn thing." And now it was Dean's turn to be the ignore-er. He locked his eyes on the screen; pointedly not looking at Sam and not wanting to see the baffled _bitch face_ his brother was undoubtedly sending his way.

The browser window was open to a site called hellhoundslair, which made Dean snort before closing it and checking his e-mail.

Spam...Spam...

Some chick he met in Oregon who he barely remembered sending him a link to her myspace profile, whatever that was; probably some MLM thing.

Spam... or wait. The address he didn't recognize, but the subject heading read, "37.92", and wasn't that damn interesting. More than a little curious he opened the document, half expecting it to be nothing more than a coincidence. Half expecting to find another advertisement for male organ enhancement (maybe he could forward it to Sammy), or a plea to set up a money transfer for a rich king in Transylvania. The other half didn't know what to expect.

No, the contents of the mystery email contained an address and four names.

792 Hamilton Avenue  
Muriel Thompson  
Christopher Thompson  
Doug Jackson  
Spencer Layton

No state or city or anything more specific. Dean copied the first name, googled, and waited. He scrolled through the anniversary announcement, the awards recipient, and stopped on the Arkansas Free Press news bulletin. It read…

_Missing, August 4th 2002. Muriel Thompson and her son Christopher, disappeared under suspicious circumstances from their residence at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas. _

Dean skimmed the rest of the article and found a similar result after searching the third name on the list. This one reading…

_Doug Jackson, Employee of Dirk's Plumbing, Missing since October 15th 2005, last seen at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas. _

And so too went the last name on the list…

_Spencer Layton, missing since March 20th from the house of his nephew in Little Rock Arkansas. _

"Huh" Dean said thoughtfully. Mulling over what he'd read, his tongue played idly with one of the stringy, somewhat forgotten sprouts that had snagged between his molars. With a little more digging Dean was sure he'd discover Spencer's nephew lived at 792 Hamilton Avenue, Little Rock Arkansas.

"Hey Sam, I think I found us a new job." Dean waited, but Sam didn't ask. Dean shrugged, and continued reading.

He drank the remainder of Sam's cup and the fact that it didn't taste like dirty water flavoured with hazelnut syrup, only pissed him off all the more that his own cup never arrived. Sam oddly enough, said nothing. Just as he said nothing when Dean had nearly spewed his lunch, and just as he said nothing when Dean had taken the laptop. Not a word. Dean got up and walked out to the car, leaving Sam with the bill.

A few minutes later, a still brooding Sam quietly slipped into the passenger seat of the Impala, folding up the receipt and stuffing it in his wallet. Sam didn't even look in Dean's direction.

Dean shoved one finger into his mouth, digging for yet another bean sprout hanging on tenaciously between his teeth.

"Dean, what are you… Gross man, get a toothpick or something."

"We've got to find a restaurant with decent food. Dude, did you know they put friggin' weeds on my sandwich? WEEDS!"

"It's not my fault you ordered from the vegetarian menu."

"It's your fault we ate at the kind of place even offers a vegetarian menu. There should be warning labels or something."

"Whatever."

"Whatever." Dean echoed around the still inserted finger. "Ah hah!" he roared in triumph and removed the digit. "Gotcha. See? A weed!"

"Ugh." Sam turned his head away from Dean's proffered hand, eyes slammed shut. "Dude, it's a bean sprout, not a weed."

"Unnatural is what it is. 'Bout made me hurl."

"Shut up."

"You shut up."

"You started it, you shut up."

"Dude, you're acting like a two year old." Dean suddenly grinned. "Just go ahead and ask me about the job I found. I know you wanna."

Sam cleared his throat, stared out the windshield a full two minutes, blatantly ignoring Dean's stare. He broke down eventually, just like Dean knew he would. "What did you find?" It sounded more like a forced statement than a question, but they both knew Dean won this round, and to Dean that was what mattered.

"I found us a job. Little Rock, Arkansas. Four people missing over the past four years, all from one house." The Impala roared to life as Dean turned the key but he watched for Sam's reaction, saw none and continued. "Want to ask how I found it?"

"How did you find it?" Sam ground out robotically.

"Wow." Dean responded with wide-eyed sarcasm. "Don't trip on your enthusiasm or anything. An email. An _anonymous_ email."

"From who?" Sam asked before he could stop himself.

"Whom."

Sam's face got all scrunchy looking and Dean smirked; some days pushing Sam's buttons were just too easy, but that didn't stop it from being fun. Sam continued. "What makes you think we should trust an anonymous email? What was the address? Why would someone be sending us information on a job by email anyway? Who has your email? What did it say?"

"Right. So, anyway, I didn't recognise the address, don't know who it is. But, the subject heading was coordinates, and you and I both know what that means. There were three names and an address, and if the information checks out, which it does by the way."

"How do you know we can trust it?"

"_Well honestly that thought didn't occur to me._" Dean said sarcastically, rolled his eyes and sighed. "It could be from Dad, Sam."

"Does Dad even know how to use e-mail?"

"Even if it isn't him, what does it matter? We're the ones doing the research. There is a house in Arkansas eating people. Eating. People."

"And we're going." Sam already knew the answer.

Smiling his smuggest smile, Dean nodded as he turned out of the parking lot, "We're going."

-0-0-0-0-0-

From Cape Girardeau, Missouri to Little Rock, Arkansas, a two hundred and ninety mile trip that took the boys about four hours. After a stop along the way to grab some _real_ food, they arrived at their destination around six pm, which left plenty of time to eat supper and for Dean to find a bar and hustle some much needed cash.

And then ...

Dean pulled the covers over his head to hide from a very awake and perky Sam.

"You know, Dean, if you didn't stay out all night at the bar, it wouldn't be so hard getting up in the morning."

"If it were actually _morning_ and not the freaking crack of dawn, it wouldn't be so hard to wake up."

"Shut up, and listen." Sam opened the laptop and connected to the net through an unsecured wireless connection. "The anonymous email you got, I looked up the profile. Apparently your tip came from a two hundred eighty-seven year old zombie monk who lives in the Himalayas, and likes to eat cheetos."

"I don't know anyone in the Himalayas." Dean deadpanned. "And what are you doing reading my emails?"

"Dean, this is important. It could be anyone."

"It could be Dad, or it could be the Easter Bunny. I don't care. The people who are missing are real, and we might be the only ones capable of finding them." Was that coffee Dean smelt? He peeked out from under the covers and saw two cups of gas station coffee sitting invitingly on the table next to the laptop. Dean rolled over and stuck an arm out, waving his fingers in a not so subtle _pass it here_ kind of way. The plea was ignored, forcing Dean to roll out of bed to pick it up on his own.

"Okay, you're right, but there's still some stuff we need to figure out and the library doesn't open till one." He turned to look at his brother and frowned. "Wow. Nice shiner, you okay?"

"Peachy." Dean groaned and probed the swollen area around his eye. His knuckles weren't in much better condition. "We're up three hundred dollars."

"You're sure you're okay?"

Dean ignored that and stared dumbfounded at the clock on the nightstand. "Sam." Did that sound like a whine? Dean cleared his throat and tried again. "Sam. If we don't have to be anywhere by one, why are you waking me up at seven?"

"Church starts at nine. The Layton's are a pastoral couple; this is their week to lead worship." Sam briefly turned the laptop for Dean to see some kind of evidence of this, which he didn't see because Sam turned it away just as Dean's eyes focused on the screen. "The house will be empty for at least three hours."

"What did you find last night?" And it had better be good, because Dean did _not_ do early unless there was a damn good reason.

"Muriel and her son Christopher disappeared in 2002. There was a lengthy investigation but no charges were laid. They're still missing, but the police are treating it as a homicide. Apparently there was evidence of a struggle, and enough blood to launch a murder investigation. Uhm, the other two are just gone, vanished into thin air. The first guy was a plumber, and he left his truck and tools behind. The second guy, the uncle, was apparently visiting and having a beer. He went to the bathroom and never came back. Not your typical abduction scenario."

"So you agree with me now? This is something for us to check out."

"I didn't disagree. It's just the source that's bugging me, you know?"

"No I don't." Dean finished the coffee and got up. "How about the house? Any history on that?"

"It was built in 1986, nothing happened there until 2001. I don't think it's the house Dean. They never found what took the Thompsons."

"Then whatever _it_ is, I'm just looking forward to killing it. Give me ten minutes and we'll go get breakfast."

Less than an hour later, the Impala rumbled through the community, and pulled up to 792 Hamilton Avenue and rolled to a stop.

The house was nothing unusual; two stories, nicely maintained, and painted a cheerful yellow colour, complete with a wrap around porch and kids toys in the yard. Dean sat in the Impala for a moment, simply looking at it.

"Doesn't look like the typical people-eating-evil-house, does it?"

"At the risk of sounding like a broken record; I don't think it's the house."

Dean smirked. "No, but it might be fun if it was..."


	2. The House

On Sunday mornings, middle class suburban neighbourhoods are like ghost towns. Families either slept in late, or left for church early, which meant that at ten am, Dean and Sam were virtually alone as they pulled up outside of the Layton residence.

Even if someone did venture to peek out their window they would see the mint condition Impala parked out front, and _ohmygod who are those boys breaking into the Layton place_ wouldn't be their first thought. A car like that didn't stay in mint condition unless the owner cared about keeping it in mint condition. The boys walking casually around to Layton's back door were obviously respectable enough to take care of a classic car, and probably had every right in the world to be there.

Dean stood behind Sam, covering him, while Sam worked on the lock. Sam, who cared so much for _normal,_ didn't seem to bat an eyelash at a little B&E. It wasn't like they were going to steal anything. It took Sam thirty seconds to pick the lock on the back door, a skill Dean didn't remember Sam being quite so talented at before college interestingly enough.

"It looks normal, in an evil-house-that-eats-people sort of way."

Sam cast Dean _the look _and made a snorting noise. "What do you know about normal?"

"I watch TV." The house was nice enough; clean, organised, boring, and on the surface completely ordinary. Except for the draft. Both Dean and Sam were immediately struck with the fact that either this house needed some major insulation work done on it, or this was their kind of house.

"Sam, keep an eye out for a hidden basement."

"There is no basement Dean."

"That we know of." Dean countered, and made Sam roll his eyes yet again.

They looked around a bit, Dean turned on the EMF converted walkman and it spiked before settling half way. "Hey Sam, you know what tomorrow is?"

"Monday." Sam answered automatically.

"No..." Dean glared at Sam's obvious obtuseness. "I mean yea, tomorrow's Monday, but that's not it. Well, that is _it_, but not _the_ it I mean."

"Okay. And?"

"Your birthday."

"I didn't forget, Dean."

"Whatever. I just wondered if you wanted to do anything." No matter what direction Dean turned, the EMF meter kept dancing.

"Like what?"

"I dunno," Dean scratched at the back of his head, thinking. "What'd you do at Stanford?"

"Nothing. What exactly are we looking for?"

Dean shrugged. "Are you still looking for the hidden basement? This was where the people went missing. We've definitely got something."

"Doesn't mean it's still here, could be some kind of kinetic residue."

"You remember that bar I took you to in Chicago?" Dean waited, and from the pinched look on Sam's face it was clear he remembered. But the whole blasé attitude about birthdays irritated Dean. "I don't get your thing against holidays. You know you're allowed to have fun once and a while, right?"

"My birthday isn't a holiday, and I was seventeen when you took me to the bar in Chicago."

"Yeah, I got you that fake ID and everything. That was awesome. I'm an awesome big brother."

"And I spent an _awesome_ night puking in the _awesome_ parking lot," Sam continued. "While you made out with some girl in the car."

"Oh yea…" Dean stared off, somehow reminiscent and leering at the same time. "Now THAT was awesome."

"Yea? If she was so awesome, what was her name Dean?"

"What," Dean huffed, "like you remember?"

"Yea, Dean, I do."

No way. Dean had been drunk that night, but Sam had been both drunk AND sick. Dean narrowed his eyes at Sam, ready to call him on this one._Just.. blurt out a name, any name! No way he knows this one. No. Way!_

On the verge of opening his mouth, Dean stopped. Damn. Sam wasn't a bad bullshitter when it came to other people, but he could never, ever, not even on his best day, bullshit Dean. He could always tell when his brother was blowing smoke, and apparently this time Sam was completely sincere.

"Her nammmme…." Dean's eyes wondered the room for inspiration while Sam waited expectantly for an answer. Screw it! "Hell, I don't remember her name, alright? But that's not the point. Sammy, she had pink nipple rings. Nipple rings Sam; even you have to appreciate that."

"Her name was Bethany, and the rings were purple, not pink. I'm going to check the upstairs. Maybe we'll learn more at the library this afternoon." And up the stairs Sam went.

Dean's mouth hung open. _How the hell did he…?_ Then closed with an audible click. If Sam thought he was getting away from Dean, he was mistaken. Dean just talked louder. "So, for your birthday, what do you want to do?"

"I told you. Nothing." Sam called back. There were three bedrooms, nothing remarkable. Sam only went up in the first place to get away from Dean. Seriously, Sam wondered when his brother was going to stop treating him like a kid. Evil houses and birthdays parties, what was up with that? There was nothing even remotely interesting to be found on the second floor, and as he came back to the stairs he heard the EMF meter spike in a high-pitched whine followed by an ominous thump.

"Dean?"

Not a sound. The EMF meter was quiet, and Dean was quiet.

Sam ran down the stairs barely touching the steps along the way. "DEAN?"

But there was nothing. The EMF meter lay broken in several pieces on the floor, and Dean was gone.

Sam's first thought was, _the evil house that eats people ate my brother._ Sam's second thought was, _OH SHIT, the evil house that eats people ate my brother._ Sam's third and barely more coherent thought was, _where's the hidden basement?_ It took almost fifteen minutes of desperate searching to reach the panicked conclusion that there was no basement, and the house probably didn't _eat_ Dean.

Which left Sam with sinking pit in his stomach and the unanswered question of, what happened to Dean?

-0-0-0-0-0-

Death. It wasn't a smell easily forgotten or ignored. Dean wondered how long he could hold his breath. It wasn't nearly long enough, and he couldn't stop gagging. It took a while to be aware of anything other than the stench and the struggle to breathe around it. Dean lay on his side, arms pulled painfully behind his back and his wrists bound with some kind of wire, feeling the tacky warmth of fresh blood on his hands.

Something light tickled Dean's cheek, and suddenly a whole new horror dawned on him. The buzzing in his ears, the faint crackling and hissing sounds, there were insects all around him, _on him_. Panic spurred the reaction to bring his arms forwards, to brush off and bat away the sensation of things crawling on him, but just that hint of movement sent a fresh wave of pain shooting up his arms. There were sharp barbs on the wire binding his wrists and they pierced unmercifully into tender flesh.

Wherever he was, the only thin slivers of light came via several poorly fitted slats of wood from a small rectangular space above. Thank god for bad carpentry and rotted wood. Needing to get a better view of the kind of shit he was in, Dean rolled to his side, wanting to avoid his back where his hands were trapped. With his knees bent, he rocked sideways and pushed himself up into a sitting position. As his eyes adjusted, revulsion brought back the gag reflex, and Dean struggled to his feet and away from where he woke up.

The bodies were laid out side by side. There were four of them, and he'd been placed as the fifth.

"Son of a…" The hunter murmured as he stared at the other 'occupants'. "Okay, this can't be good."

Dean recalled the information from the email; the first two would be the mother and child. They had been the first to go missing over three years ago, and all that was left was little more than dried hair and bone. The third body was the plumber who went missing a few months ago; the flesh dried, sunken and sinking into the ground. The uncle was the fourth. He only went missing two weeks ago. Dean wondered how long it took the man to die. The body was bloated, putrefying, and Dean had been lying right next to it.

"Definitely not good," he looked around frantically. "Sam?" Not that he expected an answer, but still…

_Focus on a way out_. Meagre light shone in through the slats of wood above, and once upon a time it might have been an entrance, but there was nothing now. Down where he stood, the room was small, about ten feet squared, the walls lined with shelves. There were about a dozen jars filled with mouldy syrup, a segment of rusted iron pipe, and a circle of barbed wire. The floor was damp, with several puddles closer to where the light seeped in. A storm cellar? There were no stairs. Dean felt his chest tighten at the confirmation that the only way out was above. The feathery touch of insect wings brushed against the side of his face and he flinched.

"SAM!"

_tbc..._


	3. The Search

This chapter was extremely difficult to get right, so HUGE thanks to Jackfan2 for an awesome beta job.

* * *

**Chapter Three**

Time limped, staggered, stumbled, lurched, crawled, and every other damn word Dean could think of, and the day passed into evening.

There had to be some way out, Dean just didn't know what it was yet. Of course the whole issue of escaping this pit would have been a lot easier without a freaking length of barbed wire wrenching his arms behind his back.

Even just sitting and leaning against the wall hurt like a bitch. His wrists throbbed, and every time he moved he felt the barbs digging deeper into his skin. Then, there was the ache in his shoulders and arms from the unnatural position and the time he'd endured it. His head pounded from the pure shittiness of it all.

Light-headed, he gazed up at the gaps in the rotting wood. A storm was coming, and the clouds obscuring the sun totally shot to hell any estimate he could have made by the angle of light leaking in through the boards. In the distance, rumbles of thunder echoed in the dark sky; at least a storm meant water.

Exploring the small enclosure hadn't taken long, but at least he'd distanced himself from the rotting corpses. Tongue thick, his mouth felt dry, parched, and sticky and he sniffed longingly at the scent of rain in the air. Really, he didn't want to think about water, but there were worse things he didn't want to be thinking about, so thinking about how thirsty he was really wasn't so bad.

If he couldn't find his own way out, then the least he could do was stay alive until Sam found him. If, and that was a big _if_, Dean couldn't get out of this himself, he had complete confidence in Sam.

What was it Sam said when they started looking for Dad? _People don't just disappear; other people just stop looking for them_. Sam would never stop looking.

Dean coughed. The air felt thick and heavy. The smell didn't change, but something was definitely different. The change made the hair on the back of his neck itch. Something was wrong.

Darkness had slowly descended as the evening progressed, but somehow this felt even… darker, but not dark with the absence of light. A shadowy form in the corner by the bodies began to grow.

"Shit," he muttered and backed away. The barb's dug in deeper as he attempted to flatten into the wall, but adrenaline compensated for the pain.

Then he felt it. Cold. Along with the rapidly shaping darkness, a chill he was all too familiar with seeped into the room. Despite his layered clothing, gooseflesh popped up all over his arms, neck and back. Dean stood to face the new threat.

The darkness coalesced into shape and slowly drifted towards Dean.

"What the hell?" It didn't respond, and Dean didn't expect it to. "You brought me here, didn't you? You sick son of a bitch, what the hell are you?"

Almost in answer, it stopped just short of him and hovered. Dean stepped away from the wall and stood his ground, there wasn't anywhere to go, and he wasn't about to start cowering from shadows.

What the hell, it was worth a try. "Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde, in nomine Dei."

Nothing.

He tried again. "In odorem suavitatis. Tu autem effugare, diabole; appropinquabit enim judicium Dei."

Still nothing.

"Yeah, I didn't think so either."

It moved closer.

Waiting, anticipating, Dean had a good idea what was about to happen but what he felt wasn't what he expected. Pain; it sliced through his head, it drove him to his knees, but that wasn't the worst of it. That wasn't the surprise. No, what he didn't anticipate was the darkness. It seeped into his mind and assaulted his thoughts, overshadowing everything else.

Then, the voice.

_Alone, _it insisted_. O_utside and inside, it was his entire world. He couldn't fight it.

_No one will find you, you will die. Alone._ _Everything you love is dead._ Then, he saw it. He _knew_ it wasn't real, but it _felt_ real. The image; Sam lay on the floor, pale and bruised, bloated, peeling. Dead. He felt the weight of knowing, of being the last one; he felt the weight of believing.

_No one will find you_, the voice echoed._ The only person who cares enough to find you is dead. _

Dean closed his eyes. The darkness complete.

0-0-0-0

10:30 AM

Ten times. Sam ran through every square inch of that house ten times.

There was nothing. _Nothing._ It was just a damn house. Dean wasn't there. Dean wasn't in the bathroom, or the backyard, or in the non-existent basement. Dean was gone.

Sam was alone.

Dean was gone, and Dean had the keys to the car. There was nothing left to do in the house, and the owners would be coming home soon.

11:00 AM.

The library wouldn't be open for another two hours, and Sam didn't know what to do. He sat in the Impala and stared at the house, and he knew he should be ripping the damn thing apart piece by piece until he found the answer to what happened to his brother.

But he knew there was nothing in the house.

Sam tried to concentrate.

What's next? WWDD, _What would Dean do_?

_Dean is going to kill me for hotwiring his car. _

12:00 PM

Detective Roger Taylor obtained relevant case files from the local police station in the interest of interdepartmental cooperation with his cleverly made FBI badge, and Sam reminded himself yet again to get new fake alias's made with names that didn't belong to belong to rock stars.

1:00 PM

With the help of a very willing library aid, Sam found every newspaper article on the disappearances that he could find, and photocopied them. He felt only vaguely ashamed of using the girl, but it had been so easy.

What was her name, Annie, Abby, Addie? Whatever, she approached him first, so that really hadn't been his fault. AnnieAbbyAddy was the one who asked him if there was anything she could do to help. Sam knew girls like her in Stanford, average girls with ill-fitting clothes and self esteem issues. He knew just by looking her in the eye, the same eyes that were magnified times three by thick glasses, that with the right amount of charm he could turn her into his willing assistant, and so he did.

Note to self; never tell Dean you couldn't remember the library assistant's name, but you had no trouble remembering purple-nipple-ring girl's name.

God. Where are you Dean?

5:00 PM

Back at the motel, Sam tacked the photocopies to the wall and tried to find something new. There had to be more, some clue that would help him find Dean.

Eyes pinched in equal parts frustration and concern, he stared at the papers. The photocopies of newspaper articles and police reports about Muriel and Christopher's disappearance; everything read to the minutest detail. Next, there was the investigation into the disappearance of both Doug Jackson and Spencer Layton, all of it in chronological order. None of it helped. None of it pointed to where the bodies... to where they were taken.

_Shit. _It was all a waste. There was nothing Sam found at the library that he didn't already have from searching the Internet.

Usually there was some kind of twisted logic to these things. What's the pattern? Five people were now missing from the house. He'd thought at first that the spirit at the house would be connected to whoever killed Muriel and Christopher Thompson, but what was the link?

Muriel and Christopher didn't have anything in common with Doug Thompson and Spencer Layton... or Dean. He read every bit of information he could find on them, and nothing stood out. They didn't disappear without a trace; there were signs of a struggle, blood. Who was to say that whatever happened to them was even supernatural? The murderer might still be alive, but Muriel and Christopher were more than likely dead.

Sam focused on the most recent disappearances, the ones that disappeared without a trace like Dean. The plumber, the uncle, and Dean. What did they have in common?

Doug Jackson. Plumber. Three kids, never married, behind on child support. Spent six months of a two-year sentence in prison for aggravated assault.

Spencer Layton; uncle to current homeowner, Greg Layton. Married, no kids, worked as a prison guard.

Dean Winchester; Hunter.

Sam swallowed. _Dean_. What did Dean have in common with an ex-con and a prison guard?

Violence.

If Muriel and Christopher died a violent death, at the hands of a violent felon, then one or both could be attached to the house.

And if they were attached to the house, they might see someone with a violent history like Doug Thompson as a threat. Spencer Layton, as a guard, would see his fair share of violence in his job. Dean...

"It fits…" Sam murmured.

And that was great, but it got him no closer to finding Dean.

And time kept ticking.

11:00 PM

Focused and absorbed, the evening flew by. Article after article, report after report, he followed each piece of information, no matter how miniscule the detail appeared. Eating was merely done to sustain energy, and he'd done that, though he'd never remember what it was he'd eaten for dinner that night. It was a routine Sam had done at Stanford while cramming the day before a big exam. The only difference was, this time the stakes were much bigger; Dean's life.

The case of Muriel and Christopher Thompson remained unsolved. The police never found any bodies, and Sam didn't know how he was supposed to succeed where they failed. Did the bodies... victims... did they get taken to where Muriel and Christopher died?

Rain poured down outside, the steady pounding against the window filling the room with sound.

0-0-0-0

Darkness. Dean reluctantly regained consciousness in the utter darkness of night.

Rain drummed on the roof above, dripping down into the cellar through the slats in the door, forming a large puddle on the ground. Dean rolled onto his side and coughed. He felt the cold wet drops hit beside his ear, then turned his head and opened his mouth. To catch the water, he had to lie in the puddle, but he was beyond caring. He was already cold, wet, and in pain. Water meant survival.

The rain stopped. So too did the source of his hydration. _Right, because this day couldn't get any shittier…_

Dean blinked his eyes, seeing nothing. The memory of seeing Sam dead wouldn't fade, and if he reached out, if he could have reached out, he feared he might feel a body still lying there.

"Sam, I know you aren't here, but it kinda feels better to talk to you." His throat burned. The muscles in his chest and arms and back ached with tension. The nerve endings in his shredded wrists screamed in agony, and he felt barely anything in his numb fingers.

"I know you're going to find me Sam. But if you don't." Dean took a shaky breath. He felt stupid talking to himself, but it felt better than not saying anything at all. "If you don't, that's okay too. I'm just... I'm glad you're not here, you know, cause this really sucks."

The air grew suddenly colder, the wet clothes clinging to his body made him colder still, and he couldn't stop shivering. Dean sat up and leaned against the rough stone wall, his teeth clattering and clacking and echoing in his head. It was back.

"S.. son of a …" he stuttered through clacking teeth. The tremors caused the barbs to dig in that much deeper.

The complete darkness of the cellar didn't feel so suffocating with his eyes closed, but it didn't matter. Open or closed he wouldn't have been able to see it when the shadow returned.

It hovered in the air, slowly descending, and this time when it invaded his mind, Dean screamed.

0-0-0-0

8:00 AM

Sam bolted upright in his chair and blinked owlishly. "Crap!" he muttered angrily.

He didn't mean to sleep. Some time around two in the morning Sam remembered closing his eyes for a moment just to clear his head, and now six hours later here he was. Six hours of time that could have been spent finding Dean were lost forever.

It wasn't fair. Dean wouldn't have fallen asleep if Sam were missing. The dim light of morning creeping in through the window only echoed what he already feared, he was going to fail, but that didn't mean he would give up.

New plan. Find Muriel and Christopher Thompson's murderer, and the murderer would be able to lead him to Dean. It made sense. A vengeance spirit seeks revenge, and what better revenge than doing to others what was done to them? That meant Dean was probably going through whatever Muriel and Christopher went through.

Sam read through the interviews yet again. The police investigated all the usual suspects; the ex-husband, co-workers, friends. Sam re-read the interviews. Today he would interview them again. He would catch something the police didn't. He had to.

0-0-0-0

Morning.

Dean honestly believed Sam would have found him by now. This whole stuck-in-a-hole-and-waiting-to-die thing was getting really old. At least the spirit didn't seem to like making daytime performances.

He was done. Tired, in pain, and frightened. Yes, frightened. This wasn't how Dean wanted to die. Morning turned to afternoon, cold was replaced by a stifling, and oppressive heat and again, thirst became an issue. Dean always saw himself as going down fighting, not sitting around waiting to die of dehydration.

The wasps, beetles, maggots, flies, and whatever the hell else constantly swarmed around the rotting corpses, spent the day checking him out. Dean could almost imagine the conversation between the groups of insects.

"_Is he dead yet?"_

"_Nope."_

"_How about now?"_

"_Nope."_

"_Is he dead yet?"_

"_Soon."_

0-0-0-0

Sam hoped he'd find something the police missed. But he didn't.

There was nothing new. Nothing.

"I was on a business trip in Chicago." The husband had no motive for killing his wife, they divorced as friends with a fair settlement, and he hadn't even been in the same state when she and their son disappeared.

"She brought cookies to the office every Monday, everyone liked Muriel." Co-workers with a sweet tooth missed her dearly.

"Everyone loved Muriel and Chris." Friends couldn't remember anyone who held a grudge against the family. They couldn't remember anything threatening ever happening to them at all.

He spent the entire day talking to people, and wasn't any closer to a solution than he'd been when Dean first disappeared.

He failed.

Sam didn't even know if Dean was still alive. But he'd _know, _wouldn't he? They were brothers. Sam would feel it. Sam would _know_. Except that he didn't.

How long can a person live without water?

Was there enough air?

Was Dean injured?

Ten PM, and that made it thirty-eight hours since Dean went missing.

Only one thing remained. The only option he'd yet to try.

The tools were waiting for him in the car, and he drove straight to the Layton house. There were only so many things he could fit in his pockets, so he only carried what he assumed would be needed.

In his jacket he carried a water bottle, salt, and lighter fluid. Within his boot, a silver bladed knife was tucked safely in a hidden sheath. In his jeans, he pocketed a Swiss Army knife, mini-mag light, and paper clips. After a quick re-check, he added a lighter and matches from the glove compartment; couldn't forget those.

He waited until midnight.

This was it.

Sam picked the biggest knife in the trunk - Dean would be proud – and left the car several blocks away. No need unwanted attention from nosey neighbours.

Not bothering with the lock pick this time, he drew back his elbow and broke the window beside the door. Mindful of the shattered glass, he reached in and unlocked the bolt. All the lights in the house were out, the family was sleeping, and Sam hoped he wouldn't get far enough to actually meet any of them. He held the blade and stepped into the kitchen.

Forty hours.

"You want violence?" Sam shouted, channelling his anger, drawing it to the surface. "Come and get me you son of a bitch."

* * *

_tbc..._


	4. The Plan

**Chapter Four**

Total darkness engulfed him as his second day turned into his second night. "Isn't this just fucking great."

The only other living occupants in his little slice of hell, the insects, kept him constant company throughout the day. Just about every freaking one of them at some point decided to abandon their well picked over feast to investigate the possibility of a new menu item. That determination not to become their next meal kept him moving and the constant need for motion pretty much covered his day.

Dean sighed. God he was tired. And thirsty. And screwed. _So, so, screwed._

Exhausted and in pain, he wasn't sure how he'd manage another twenty-four hours. This wasn't right; what with all the evil sons of bitches he'd toasted over the years, he shouldn't be laid low by a spirit like this. He shouldn't be doing the Nell Fenwick down in some hole, waiting for Dudley Do-Right to come to his rescue. And yet, here he was.

Now that the air was growing cooler as the sun sank lower in the sky, Dean dreaded the reappearance of the spirit. A throbbing headache pulsed in his temples, making it hard to think of anything other than how fucking miserable he felt.

"I'm gonna get out of here." Dean spoke, in the hopes that hearing the words aloud would help him believe them.

The last tendrils of light faded from the narrow slits of the wooden door above, and Dean felt his heart begin to race. He knew what to watch for and he didn't have to wait long. Just as before, the temperature in the room plummeted several degrees at once and the air suddenly became thick and weighted. He tensed in anticipation.

"I'm gonna kick your ass when I get out of here. Got that?" Dean gritted his teeth, "And when I'm done kicking your ass, my little brother is going to take a turn kicking your..." The last word was choked off.

Pain. His skin was on fire in a million different places all at once. Gripped in agonizing seizures, the resolve to resist was slowly but thoroughly stripped away. Darkness seeped steadily into his mind, violating Dean's courage and strength.

_You will die alone, and no one will care. No one will come for you. _

Like the night before, it showed him a picture. Sam. It showed him Sam with cloudy eyes open; maggots feasting on bloated seeping flesh. The mental onslaught left Dean anxious, used up, and defeated. He understood why it came to him after dark. In the day, even in the sparse light that leaked down from above, Dean could have seen the truth, but in the dark, he couldn't sort out what was real and what was not, and the resulting uncertainty preyed on what was left of his stamina.

The vision ended with an echo of a scream on his lips and tremors still coursing through his abused body. He couldn't do this again.

_Sorry Sam. _

How long did it take for the other victims to die? One day? Two? More? He couldn't make it through another night like this, at least, not with his sanity intact.

Exhaustion finally won, and Dean reluctantly found his eyes closing. The feathery touch of insects lightly brushed against his skin, and he couldn't even find the will to flinch. Unconsciousness beckoned as a safe haven, and Dean welcomed its embrace.

-0-0-0-0-0-

The sting of an insect bite just under his eye woke Dean with a jolt. _Shit._ They were all over him. He could feel things crawling on his arms and under his clothes as panic threatened to take hold. But then the air chilled suddenly, reminding Dean there were worse things than having a few bugs crawling on him.

_Not again. Please God, not ..._

But there was only sound. _Thump. Splash._

That was it. Dean stayed quiet, and waited.

"Dean?"

Oh God forgive him, but Dean felt relieved to hear his brother's voice.

"Sam?"

Could it be some kind of new mind-fuck the spirit was playing at?

The only answer Dean received was the sound of gagging and choking coming from the other side of the room.

"Sam?"

This wasn't a trick, spirits in general tended to be unintelligent and ritualistic, their games didn't change. The muscles in his back were so badly cramped that he wasn't even sure he could move, but Dean found the strength, and he got to his knees and inched towards the sound of his brother coughing.

"Sam, just breathe, you just gotta breathe through it, and you'll get used to the smell. Sort of. Can you move?"

"What? No, my arms are behind my back. Ow."

"Yea, welcome to the club. Be careful I think its barbed wire. Roll to your left when you get up, otherwise you're going to be getting really personal with our friend Spencer, and that's something you don't want to do. Trust me. We have to get you out of that corner." Dean listened to Sam grunt. "Follow my voice."

"Dean. It worked. Are you alright?"

"What worked? What the hell, Sam?" Together they clambered across the room, and away from the bodies. Dean propped himself back up against the wall and strained to see, but he might as well have had his eyes closed for all the good it did in the absolute darkness.

"I found you." Sam sounded relieved. _Relieved._ "Where are we?"

"Sam. What the hell did you do?" The relief Dean had felt was rapidly being replaced by dread. Icy, intense_ dread_.

"It doesn't matter. Dean, where are we?"

"Give me a minute while I check my GPS." Dean bit out sarcastically. "We're in some kind of old storm or root cellar, I don't know where. Little brother, you'd better tell me you have a plan or I swear to God..." But there was no answer, just a strangled gasp.

"Sam?"

The air had changed again, and Dean hadn't noticed until it was too late. He heard Sam fall, and Dean's stomach lurched.

"No, no, no, no, no. Get the fuck away from my brother." There was nothing he could do. Nothing. He was helpless while the spirit violated his brother as it had him. He pressed his knee against Sam's side while Sam's body spasmed in painful convulsions. "Sam, it's going to be okay. You're okay."

Minutes passed before Sam's body finally stilled.

"Sammy?" Dean leaned down and pressed his head against Sam's chest because he couldn't hear his brother breathing. Aside from the constant buzzing of insects, all was quiet, and Dean couldn't remember how to inhale. With his head down on Sam's chest though, he felt it; the rise and fall of Sam's ribs moving; he heard Sam's heart beating. For a minute Dean just stayed that way because Sam was alive, and Sam wasn't even conscious so really who would know?

And Dean was going to kill him 'cause _what the hell_?

"Dean?"

"Yeah." Dean sat up, keeping his knee pressed against Sam's side. "You back with me?"

"Mm." It sounded like a sob, but Dean wasn't about to call him on it. Not when he felt like doing the same thing. "You're not dead."

"No." Dean assured him. "I'm right here. I'm not dead, you're not alone."

Sam's voice hitched and he coughed awkwardly before continuing. "It looked like you were dead. That sucked."

"Yeah, it sucks out loud, I know."

"So how many times did you…? Did that thing..?"

"Wasn't counting." Adrenaline flagged and Dean coughed through the sticky cotton in his throat that made it difficult to talk.

"We gotta get outta here." Sam's voice was laced in concern as he shifted and rolled around. "My pocket. I have a Swiss Army knife in my right jean pocket. We can use it to cut through the wire."

"I can barely feel my hands Sammy. I don't know if I can."

"Well, you gotta try man, or else we're both stuck here."

_Son of a… _"Shit," Dean swore. "This is your plan?" No accusation in the question, just fear.

With a pained grunt, Dean got to his knees and turned awkwardly around to reach. That it hurt was an understatement. Every movement jarred his shoulders and his wrists. Moving his fingers was agony.

"There." Sam guided. "That pocket."

"Dude," Dean froze. "Man, you _ever_ tell anyone I had my hands in your pockets, I will _so_ kick your ass." The huff of sound coming from Sam sounded suspiciously like laughter. Dean's swollen fingers touched Sam's hip, traced the fabric of Sam's pocket, and he pushed his fingers inside.

"C'mon, Dean. Just a bit further."

_God, this was soooo wrong_. "K, that is so no helping. Shut up Sam." Dean growled and Sam complied. With a grunt he swivelled in further and stopped. "Crap, just how tight do you wear your jeans?" At the sound of Sam's intake of breath and he added quickly, "And that was rhetorical, by the way."

"Just hurry." And again, Dean could hear the smile in his voice.

Dean sucked in a pain filled breath and pushed his hand as far into his brother's pocket as the angle would allow. The reaching pressed on the wire; the barbs pulled against already raw wounds. "Got it." The knife slipped out of the pocket, Dean's swollen fingers handled the grip awkwardly and it dropped to the floor.

"Can you get it open?"

"No." Dean started to sag. "No man, I'm sorry Sammy. I'm gonna try to pass it to you." _Before I pass out_. "You'll have to do it." Dean stretched and picked it up again. Sam rolled over, so that his hands were close to Dean, and Dean passed him the knife.

Five minutes. That was all it took with the proper tools, and an extra pair of hands. Alone, neither Dean nor Sam would have been able to do it. But they weren't alone, not any more. Sam, unable to reach his own wrists, worked at the wire around Dean's wrists instead.

The pull was agony as Sam clipped the wire. Then, he was suddenly free. The rush of blood to his extremities and back again was excruciating. Muscles seized against the newly reclaimed range of motion and blood flow and Dean quickly discovered a whole new world of pain.

"Damn." Dean's vision spun maddeningly. The physical pull of gravity was all but uncontrollable and he sagged to the cold floor.

"Dean?"

"Yea…" he grunted, teeth gritted, determination fortified. "Coming."

After a few deep breaths, equilibrium was restored, for the moment. Dean took back the knife and slowly cut through the wire on Sam's wrists. It took time, Dean's grip slipped on several occasions and he almost dropped the tool at least twice, but he did it.

Sam was free; Dean sighed in relief. Feeling light headed, the blackness of his vision swirled and dipped. He couldn't think, his head felt too heavy for his neck and in the absolute darkness he wasn't even sure which way was up anymore.

"I got you."

Strong hands embraced Dean's shoulders, grounding him, holding him steady. The room shifted, or maybe it was Sam. Something hard and solid connected with his back and a warm hand gently cushioned his head. It was then he realized he was now propped against the wall. A zipper opened, and the darkness was suddenly driven back with the glaring yellowish shine of a flashlight

"Damnit Sam." Dean squinted against the invading light. It was a testament to how weak he was when Sam, despite his protests, hooked a hand under Dean's chin and studied his face a moment. Eyes tightly closed, Dean felt his hands lifted..._SHIT…_, no doubt receiving the same scrutiny.

"Shit." Sam muttered during his examination.

_That can't be good,_ so Dean cautiously opened his eyes. The dim glow of the light revealed his torn and bleeding wrists as they lay unmoving in his lap. Definitely not a pretty sight.

The younger Winchester propped the light on the ground and dug into his jacket pocket again. A moment later he produced a small bottle of water, popped the lid and extended it to his brother. "Drink this, Dean."

"Dude," Dean blinked slowly at the proffered container, "how many things do you have stashed in your pockets?" The weakness in his own voice startled him. Dean wanted to take the water bottle, but he couldn't raise his arms that high and his fingers wouldn't grip. His wrists, hands, arms and shoulders felt like they were on fire. Instead, he merely grunted in frustration and shook his head.

Then, without a word, Sam cupped one hand behind his brother's head and brought the water up to Dean's cracked and dry lips, and helped his brother drink.

After a few sips, Dean turned his head away. "Thanks." The cool water coursed through his system and his head cleared a little bit, though the nagging headache remained. He watched Sam shine the light around the cellar, and saw Sam's face in the light. "You look like shit Sam."

"Pot, meet kettle." Sam countered.

"But we both know what I've been doing. What the hell happened? How did you get here?"

"Same way you did."

"What kind of plan is that? Did you even know where you'd end up? What the hell were you thinking?"

"I thought you needed help." The younger hunter snapped back and glared at his brother, "But, no, I see you were doing just fine on your own."

"And what if things hadn't gone the way you oh so brilliantly planned Sam? What then? We'd both be screwed." Anger was good, and it sure as hell felt better than the mind numbing panic Dean felt when faced with the reality of how far Sam was willing to go to help him.

The light caught the bodies, illuminating them grotesquely.

"They're all here." Sam couldn't tear his eyes away from the corpses.

Dean looked away and leaned tiredly against the wall. The small amount of water had helped, but his vision was clouding again. Determined this time to do it on his own, he started to reach for the water when Sam pushed to his feet. "Sam?"

"It's a vengeance spirit." Sam said, staring at the oldest remains. "Muriel or Christopher, I don't know which one." He pulled the lighter fluid from his pocket. "Course if we burn'em now we'll probably die of smoke inhalation before getting out of here."

"So we find a way out first. What time is it?"

Sam looked down at his watch. "One thirty, why?"

"Sam." Dean waited for Sam to look at him again. "Happy belated birthday."

Sam laughed. "If I knew this was what you had in mind I would have suggested a bar or something."

"Hell of a place to find your sense of humour, Sammy." Dean scoffed. "So, why don't you want to celebrate? You used to make a big deal out of it when you were a kid."

"Yea well, I'm not ten years old anymore Dean. I just want..." How could he can he say what he wanted when he didn't even know? "I want to buy you a beer and play some pool."

"I could go for that." The brother's eyes met for a moment, understanding and accepting. Then, Dean glanced upward. "There's a door up there."

Sam aimed the flashlight up at the ceiling, where Dean pointed toward the uneven slats making up the old door. "I can climb it."

Looking less than convinced, Dean nonetheless moved aside to make room for Sam to do his thing. Dean took the flashlight and Sam reached for a piece of wood jutting out of the wall that had once been a bracket.

There were plenty of uneven surfaces for Sam pull himself up on. The trick was finding things that were sturdy enough to hold his weight. It didn't take long. At the top he held precariously to the corner wall, and pushed up on the boards. It wasn't a surprise when he felt no give on the boards.

A familiar chill suddenly filled the room and Dean called out in alarm. "Sam!"

A dark stain quickly formed in the air in front of the younger man. Worried that this might be his only chance, Sam jumped and grabbed onto the middle plank of the door. The sudden addition of his body weight on the old wood stressed the entire frame to the breaking point. Both Sam and the door crashed down. The fall knocked the wind out of him, and the spirit descended.

It was intense and desperate. The spirit thrust itself into Sam's mind with unforgiving intensity. Nothing existed beyond the desolation and pain abusing his consciousness. Sam distantly heard himself screaming as the spirit permeated his mind with the illusion of death; the sensation of insects devouring flesh from the inside out, the vision of the same happening to Dean.

Then it was gone.

"Sam?" Dean place a hand on Sam's shoulder, the broken length of iron pipe he used to slash through and dissipate the spirit still clenched in his other fist. Sam rolled onto his side, gasping for breath and still shaking from the attack.

"I'm okay."

"We've got to burn the bones now; it's not going to just let us leave here."

Dean was right. Sam dug into his jacket pocket to find the salt and lighter fluid, passed it to Dean who poured salt on the dried remains of Muriel and Christopher, then squeezed out the entire bottle of lighter fluid.

"Sam, please tell me you have a lighter."

Still on the ground Sam held up a matchbook. Dean took it and fumbled. His fingers were numb; too uncooperative to strike the match. "A little help."

Concerned, Sam sat up and fought back a wave of nausea. "Will you be able to climb out?"

"Just do it. I don't think we'll have another chance at this." Even as he spoke the spirit began to reform.

Sam lit the match, and tossed the entire pack on the bones. The flames shot up in a hiss of air, enveloping both bodies.

Smoke filled the room faster than either of them anticipated, stinging their eyes and burning their lungs. Sam grabbed the wall and started to climb. He lost his grip twice, recovered and kept going. He'd find something at the top to help Dean. A ladder, a rope, anything he could use to pull his brother up. There had to be something, and Sam held onto that hope as he pulled himself up.

A three quarter moon illuminated the landscape. There was no ladder, no rope. Nothing.

Dropping to the ground, Sam looked down into the smoke filled hole. "Dean!"

Sam couldn't see anything, but he could hear Dean coughing and it sounded much closer than expected. In spite of his injuries, Dean was climbing. Sam reached down, smoke obscuring his vision, and he groped blindly for his brother.

As soon as he felt it, he grasped Dean's wrist with his right hand. He heard Dean shout, the skin on his wrist slippery and rough, but there wasn't time to be gentle. Sam held on, and his muscles burned as he pulled Dean up.

The brothers lay on the ground next to each coughing. Thankful to be breathing fresh air, and the stars in the sky winked down at them.

"I saw it."

Sam rolled his head towards Dean and coughed some more. "What?"

Dean's voice was coarse, barely more than a whisper. "It was the boy. He was behind you when the fire caught."

Sam didn't answer. He didn't need to; they both knew why that sucked. Only the worst kind of death could make a kid turn into the thing they encountered down there.

* * *

_tbc..._

* * *


	5. The End

**Chapter Five**

Stars glittered overhead as the smell of smoke and charred embers dissipated in the air. They lay in the grass, panting, gulping desperately at the clean, smoke-free night breezes.

"You okay?" Sam finally asked.

"Yeah," Dean's voice was raspy and laced with exhaustion. "You?" Lying beside his brother on the cool grass, he turned his head. Sam was staring up into the pre-dawn sky.

"Good." Sam answered. "Dean?"

After a brief coughing fit, the oldest Winchester sighed, "What Sam?"

"I've been thinking."

"Oh God…" Great, what now? Dean sighed. "What?" He waited for an answer, one minute, two minutes. "What were you thinking Sam?"

"Just… you know." He really shouldn't but, "I told you so."

"Huh?"

"The house," Sam smiled. "I told you the house wasn't eating people."

Sam could practically hear Dean rolling his eyes, "Right."

The sound of crickets and small nocturnal creatures filled the short silence.

"Dean?"

Dean groaned, "I swear Sam, if you--"

"I'm sorry."

"What?" That was it. "Dude, are you high? What do you have to be sorry about?"

"I should have found you sooner."

Dean sighed. "Shut up, Sammy."

"Okay." Sam was quiet for all of thirty seconds. "Dean?"

"Dude, I thought we agreed you'd shut up."

"Oh. Okay."

Silence hung between them. The cooling breeze whispered through the grass, carrying the still smoking wafts away from their resting place. The stillness soon became too much for Dean.

After a muttered expletive, "What?"

Sam grinned. "You reek."

"Thanks." The reply was slurred; sleep tugging at the edges of his rumbling tone. "You too."

"Yeah." Sam turned his head and watched his brother relax in the calm fresh night air. Gradually the rhythm of his breathing became slower, the breaths deeper. Sam sat up and leaned his back against the closest tree and just watched his brother sleep.

0-0-0-0

"We're here." The truck creaked and groaned as the engine turned off. Sitting in the driver's seat, Sam turned and watched his brother for a minute. There wasn't any easy way to do this. He had hoped cutting the engine would revive his brother, but no such luck. Dean slept reclined in the passenger seat of the old pick-up, his face squished up against the window.

"Dean?" Sam called just a little bit louder. Nothing.

Sam gently touched Dean's arm, and practically had to jump back from the flurry of motion that followed.

"We're here."

_Where? _Dean felt like there was sand in his eyes and cotton in his head. The motel? _How the hell?_ The last thing he remembered was climbing out of the cellar. And where did they suddenly get a truck from?

The passenger side door opened and Sam reached in to help pull Dean out, only to be slapped away.

"Back off."

Sam stepped back and waited.

Dean didn't seem to be getting ready to move any time soon. What was the rush? He only just got woken up, none too gently for that matter, and now Sam expected him to just hop up and jog into the motel.

_And Sam waited_…

Well, screw Sam. Dean was going to do this under his own steam, in his own time. And so what if the pavement looked miles away? His back and shoulder muscles were cramped and aching, his head still wasn't sure which direction was up. Sam could damn well wait.

"Dean?"

"Yeah, yeah, I'm coming." Dean didn't move.

_And Sam waited_…

"Want a hand?" Sam didn't look impatient. There was no tapping of feet, rising of eyebrows, or pinching of forehead signalling the trademark_ Sammybitchface. _Just Sam. Standing and waiting. Looking like a Boy Scout ready to help an old lady across the street.

Well, hell, pride definitely wasn't getting him out of the truck any time soon, so Dean bit back his first instinct to do it himself and finally nodded. Sam reached up with his left arm and wrapped it around Dean's back, acting as a crutch so that Dean could climb out of the truck without falling on his face. Even on the pavement things didn't look much steadier, and he found himself leaning heavily on Sam for support.

Sam kept his arm in place, kicked the rusted door closed, and was stopped again by Dean.

"Sam, dude, where's my car?"

"It's still at the house. I'll get it later."

"Hell no, we're getting it now." Dean started to pull away and head back to the truck on his own, which would have been more impressive if he hadn't fallen to one knee after the first step. Sam's arm still protectively wrapped around his waist was the only thing keeping him from face planting completely.

"Damn it Dean. Let's get you inside first and I promise I'll go back for the Impala."

"But..."

"We're a mess. It'll probably be a week before the smell of smoke and whatever fades from the truck, you know? You really want to do _that_ to your car? C'mon, let's get inside."

Once inside, Dean shook Sam off him yet again and leaned against the wall. The bathroom was to the left beside the TV. "I'm gonna jump in the shower."

_Step one: Reclaim the Dean Winchester independence_

"Need any," the bathroom door slammed shut in Sam's face, "help?"

_Step two: Turn on water._

Another wave of dizziness washed over him and Dean locked his knees to keep from falling and leaned back against the door.

_Shit... maybe step two should've been 'make it to the fucking tub without falling over, dumb ass!'_ Who knew that step two would require real, actual physical steps?

Eyes closed, he waited for the darkness to stop sparking and oozing before attempting to move again. When he opened them again and the tile didn't do the tilt and whirl thing, he moved slowly to sit on the edge of the tub.

_Part two of Step two: Turn on the water._

Dean stared at the silver knobs, then at his uncooperative hands. Just reach in and turn on the tap. Easy right?

It should have been easy. So what if his muscles were sore? It was nothing. _Nothing_. Compared to the claw marks, concussions, and all the other things he'd been injured with in the past. Sore muscles should be a cakewalk.

Even as he moved his arm out from his side Dean felt his hand shaking. It took a few tries, but he did get it. The water ran hot from the faucet into the tub.

_Step three: Remove clothes._

In natural succession, his gaze travelled down to the buttons of his shirt. The simple act of removing the garment suddenly looked like an insurmountable obstacle. To top it off, he was either hallucinating or the damn things were glaring tauntingly back at him, daring him to move. And he wasn't moving. _Well, fuck me_.

It wasn't just because the buttons were small and his hands were shaking. It wasn't just because his fingers were swollen and uncooperative. It was because two days worth of damp and dirt were ground into the cotton fabric making his shirt rigid and unyielding.

Dean closed his eyes and wished he could just fall asleep as he was. The steady drone of water in the tub hummed in his ears... and damn he really just wanted to get this done with so he could lie down in a soft warm bed and sleep for a week.

"Sam." And when that came out of his mouth, even he couldn't believe it.

Part of him hoped his brother wouldn't hear him. No such luck. It took all of two seconds for Sam to run to his rescue.

"Buttons." Dean said, hoping he didn't have to explain further.

It was a toss up between humiliation or exhaustion, and right then with Sam kneeling in front of him, helping Dean take off his own shirt; humiliation was definitely getting the upper hand. It did, however, help to see that Sam apparently was having no easier of a time with the buttons than Dean had.

After a frustrated grunt, Sam gave up and simply ripped the shirt open.

Dean flinched back as a few of the tiny plastic menaces spun vengefully toward his face. Most, however, clattered nosily off the mirror and various other ceramic surfaces of the small room.

"I could have done that myself genius." Dean grumbled. Well, no matter, it's not like the shirt was going anywhere but in the garbage after this anyhow.

"There." Sam stood back, and had the decency to look awkward. "That should be, uh, is there anything..."

"Get out."

Sam nodded, spun around quickly and left. For a minute Dean just stared at the door, pissed off at anything and everything.

Pissed off that he'd been stuck in that hole of a cellar for two days.

Pissed off that his wrists were cut to hell from the barbed wire, _fucking barbed wire_, used to restrain his arms behind his back.

Pissed off with Sam for treating him like an invalid.

Pissed off that his brother had ended up down in the cellar with him, armed only with a stupid plan that had no guarantee of working.

Pissed off that whenever he blinked he could still see the images the spirit tortured him with. Images of Sam splayed on the floor, skin yellowish and bruised, lifeless, rotting. When he let his guard down he could still feel the intruding weight of the spirit as it pushed into his mind, stripping away his resolve, and leaving only weakness in its wake. Leaving him with the empty hollow numbness of being left behind, of being forced to stay alive even after everything he cared about was dead.

Dean kicked his clothes under the sink and stepped under the warm spray of the shower, and as the hot water warmed his body he began to shiver. Here he was, finally warm, safe, _home with Sam, _and it felt like he was falling apart. Why did everything always have to be so fucked up all the time? He should have fought harder. For two days he'd been helpless. For two days he'd been a victim, vulnerable, weak, and powerless. Feeling nauseous again, Dean sat down and simply let the hot water rain down on him.

Weak and powerless were not words he normally associated with himself. He was a Winchester after all. Winchesters are not victims, they are fighters. Winchesters do not give up. But Dean did, so what did that make him? Eventually the hot water cooled, signalling the end of his shower, and the sudden silence in the bathroom after the tap was turned off felt deafening. Dean pulled back the curtain and tried to summon the energy to get up.

Fresh clothes were waiting for him, a sign that Sam had at some point returned to the bathroom. The soiled clothes he'd pushed under the sink were taken away. Dean pulled on the sweats and loose t-shirt, and walked out to face Sam.

"You okay?" Sam passed Dean a bottle of water and a couple Tylenol. Dean noticed his wallet and keys on the dresser rescued from the pocket of his jeans, but there was no sign of the old clothes.

Dean nodded, still shivering. Sam sat down at the table and started going through the first aide box, setting things aside that he would need. Sam didn't look so hot either. There were dark circles under his eyes, the filth from the cellar still clung to his clothes and skin, and his wrists were spotted with dried blood.

"You should clean up first."

Guilt flashed across Sam's face as he looked up and briefly met Dean's eyes. "My hands are clean."

That wasn't what Dean meant.

Too tired to press, Dean sat across from his brother and held out his wrists. The lacerations were mostly superficial and only a few of them needed stitches. Sam cleaned the wounds, applied the antibiotic ointment, and wrapped them with gauze. There wasn't much to be done other than watch for infection. Dean would need a tetanus booster in the next couple of days.

Dean yawned. "I forgot to ask where that truck came from."

"You were kind of out of it." Sam grinned. "There was a farm about a mile away. I did some scouting while you slept."

Dean nodded, remembering none of it. "Anyone going to miss it?"

"I'll take care of it after my shower." Sam shut the bathroom door, leaving Dean alone.

There were clippings neatly tacked to the wall, illustrating the disappearances of Muriel and Christopher, and then the other two men. Dean toured the room, looking at everything, piecing together what the past two days might have been like for Sam. On Sam's bed there was a police folder detailing the case and the interviews, with notes interspersed throughout the pages in Sam's handwriting. Time slipped away as Dean followed the research.

"See anything interesting?" Sam asked.

Dean hadn't even heard Sam come out of the bathroom. He closed the folder and placed it back where he found it. "Did you figure it out?"

"No."

"And you did all this in just two days?"

"It wasn't enough,"

"But it's a hell of a lot Sam. It's real thorough."

"Right." That tone got Dean's attention. "Well, nothing is still nothing whether it's thorough or not. You hungry?" Sam asked, changing the topic.

Dean stopped. There was something off here. "Wait a minute, am I missing something?"

"Only if you're hungry." Sam moved to the dresser and grabbed the keys. "And, since you haven't eaten in two days, the same two days I couldn't find a single goddamn clue in my_ thorough wall of nothing, _how about I go get us something?"

"Sam," Dean blinked slowly. His mind was still a little too fuzzy grasp his brother's sudden change, but he knew something was wrong. "Wait."

"I'll be back in about an hour." Sam called on the way out the door.

"Sam!" Dean tried to catch his brother's arm, but when the room blurred and his head spun; he barely made it to the corner of the bed. Grabbing for the soft mattress he managed to take a seat.

Staring at the closed door, Dean ran a hand through his close-cropped hair and sighed. _Shit. Why did things always have to be so difficult?_

0-0-0-0

"Soup."

Dean blinked sleep out of his eyes and slowly sat up. "Yea." Rolling his sore shoulders he asked, "How long were you gone?"

"Couple of hours maybe." Sam opened the Styrofoam container, and passed Dean a spoon. "I wasn't sure how hungry you'd be. I thought we could start with soup and go from there."

"How about you?"

"I had a sandwich in the car."

"Sure you did." If Dean had a dollar for every time Sam claimed to have already eaten, he'd never have to hustle pool again. The chicken noodle soup looked good, it smelled good. "You hotwired my car, didn't you?"

The keys landed on the bed beside him.

"I mean while I was gone. The keys were in my pocket Sam."

His brother only shrugged, and Dean let it pass. "So I've been thinking, we should call the cops and leave an anonymous tip about the cellar." He ate some more soup, and then put the container aside.

"I already did."

Dean should have known Sam would take care of that part of things, but there was more he needed to know. "The spirit was taking people it saw as a threat to the family wasn't it? It was trying to protect the family living there."

"Yeah."

"So, how you found me... you made it take you too, didn't you?" No answer was necessary; Dean could see it plainly written all over Sam's face. "You know you're an idiot right?"

"Dean, I had to..."

"Shut up Sam."

Sam shut up.

Dean scrubbed at the back of his neck searching for the right words. "You couldn't find me, I get that. I see what's going on, I'm not _that_ dense. The research you did, it was solid Sam, and you did everything you could." Dean approached the wall and gestured, "But, sometimes that's how it goes, no matter how smart you are or how good the research is, that's it. There aren't always answers."

It took three steps for Sam to stride past Dean and rip over half the notes off the wall. "Whoever murdered Muriel and Christopher Thompson is, in all probability, still out there and I may have destroyed the last evidence that could have led the cops to whoever did it."

"Not like we had a lot of options. The rest of it, yeah it sucks. The bastard who killed that kid and turned him into the thing we faced down there, I hope he rots in hell, but that isn't our job. We did what we came here to do, right? No one else is going to go missing. No one else has to die like that."

Sam looked away and Dean pressed on, hoping he was getting through.

"The research wasn't taking you anywhere, so you did the only thing you could, you acted on instinct. You had to stop thinking and ask yourself…"

"What would Dean do?"

"Hell yea!" Dean stopped. "Wait. What?" The sarcastic smirk on Sam's face answered loudly. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? Look, I'm being serious here, what you did, putting yourself in the line of fire like that?" Dean's mind instantly flashed to the images ofSam_ splayed on the floor, skin yellowish and bruised, lifeless, rotting_. "Man, you had no idea what was going to happen did you? You didn't even know it wouldn't just kill you."

"I didn't even know if you were still alive. You're right, I wasn't thinking. I couldn't think, and I'd rather," Sam's voice faltered a beat. "Man, I'd rather die than live knowing there was something I could have done but didn't_."_

A tense quiet settled between the brothers, both lost in their own thoughts. The spectre of emotions: despair, helplessness and fear that covered the last forty-eight hours. The depth of what each of them would willingly do to save the other, suddenly apparent. It was too much to bear.

"Okay," Dean offered calmly, the silence finally broken by acceptance. "I get it, I don't like it, but I get it. Thanks for coming after me. Just," Dean stopped and swallowed his temper, temper flared by worry... by memories... _The empty hollow numbness of being left behind, of being forced to stay alive even after everything he cared about was dead_. "Just, tell me you know it was stupid, and if there'd been another way, you'd have done it."

Sam nodded. "Fine, if it makes you feel better, I know it was stupid and I swear if there'd been any other way, I'd have done it."

Dean reached over and pointedly started eating the soup again, clearly sending the message that _this discussion is over_. "So what else did you bring me?"

"Chicken salad sandwich." Sam pulled the bag away just as Dean reached for it. "Finish your soup first." The conversation might be over, but that didn't mean Sam had to stop thinking about it. He knew taunting the spirit to take him to Dean had been a stupid plan, but he'd do it again in a heart beat if it meant saving his brother, and he knew Dean would do the same for him if their situations were reversed. That's just the way things were. Sam didn't want it any other way.

The end.

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